


The Seer

by withswords



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archivist Gerard Keay, Asexual Character, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Evil Tim Stoker, Gerard Keay Lives, Head of the Institute Timothy Stoker, Jon is not the Archivist, M/M, No Season 5 Spoilers, Power Dynamics, Sexuality, Unrequited Crush, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24661639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withswords/pseuds/withswords
Summary: In the morning, Tim had apologized if Jon had been uncomfortable with any of it. And he checked in through the evening, said he never wanted Jon to feel pressured or as though Tim was taking advantage of his position. Had gotten a patient smile on his face at the bar when Jon began to squirm, and said he understood about Gerard.Who was he kidding? Worst of all was Jon’s stupid hopeless crush on his other new boss. The one he wasn’t sleeping with.-----AU: Archivist Gerard and Head of the Institute Tim. Jon is there, also.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/ Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 27
Kudos: 96





	1. 93 Ave. Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my boyfriend for helping me generate this idea and encouraging me to write it! I just had to get this idea out of my head before my brain would let me work on anything else. I've been obsessed with the idea of Tim as Jonah's vessel and Gerry as the new Archivist basically since I started listening to the show so naturally I had to take it in the horniest direction possible. 
> 
> Note that as the fic goes on it's going to be dipping into some very dark themes because if Jonny Sims won't write sex horror SOMEbody has to. If you're sensitive to topics like emotional abuse, gaslighting, unhealthy power dynamics, or manipulation in a sexual relationship, this fic may not be for you.

He closed his eyes, the skin of his face prickling hot, squeezed so tight that static swirls burst against his eyelids. The stroke of his hand sent hot swooping pleasure down through his cock to mirror the phosphene light show. He breathed hard, wet a dry lip. The embarrassment was undeniable, even as he tugged on himself as slow and firm as he would in private- how could he not be embarrassed? His knees pulled up towards his stomach, rasping on what he gathered were very expensive sheets. The sound frightened him. It sounded like another’s breath in the room with them.

Tim’s mouth surged against his and he gasped. His hand faltered for a moment, shaking as their tongues slid over one another, and his stomach tightened. 

“Jon,” he whispered, clipped and silken. He knew he would be, but fuck, how did Tim act so _confident_ at a time like this? Tim smiled against his lips. “I want you to look at me.”

He’d flush harder if it were possible. His eyes fluttered open to watch Tim lever himself up to hover over him, look down at him. Tim stared straight into his eyes; blue moonlight through an open window caught in Tim’s eyes and turned them from hazel to a milky green. Jon shuddered. Nobody had ever looked at him like that before. Desire bordering on cannibalism. He didn’t know how to take it, half wanting to squirm away and hide under the blankets and half wanting to melt and sprawl out like a buffet.

It was too much. Gasping again, he turned his head and looked anxiously at the other man. The old one, lank and sunless, standing at the edge of Tim’s bed. The one with so many green, green eyes, all staring at him, too. Before he could say anything, Tim held his jaw and gently guided his face to look back up. He tried to speak, worked his mouth thickly. His hand was still moving; he was still moving his hand.

“Shh, shh.” Tim’s thumb stroked over his stubble. “Just let me watch.”

Jon let out a yelp, snapping upright as though to catch himself falling. He panted hard. Sweat gathered on his neck, everywhere he had been touching the sheets, just-- he ran a hand through his hair and cringed at the wetness. God, he was disgusting. His heart thudded in his throat and his fingertips and the backs of his knees and in his cock which was unconscionably hard and plastered with sweat against his thigh. Groaning, he flopped over to bury his face in the pillow. He indulged himself with a grumble of “Fuck!” muffled against his sweat-stained pillowcase.

He sank down into the sheets again for a moment, catching his breath. These dreams had left him exhausted and soaking in cold sweat every morning for the last week, and if he hadn’t felt so rotten caked in his own fluids he would have gone back to bed. His breath blew back hot and unpleasant in his face. He didn’t normally-- he’d never really-- not like _this_ , not since he was a teenager and his hormones had hit some awkward peak, but as it was he didn’t even tend to _think_ of people in that way. And Tim…

Gathering his strength, Jon hauled himself into the shower. The memories of that night were never far from his mind. How could they be, with those dreams hammering in some twisted version of them any time he tried to get some rest? He turned his face into the cold spray and scrubbed at himself until his skin stung.

Things at the institute had gotten increasingly complicated over the last few months. The public scandal around his late boss’s apparent violent meltdown, the murder of the former head archivist and Bouchard’s ensuing suicide, leading to an absolute chaotic shakeup as employees turned in their notices and vanished and others ended up shuffled all about the place to fill in the gaps. It was a logistical nightmare. Worst of all was the ascension of his only proper work friend to the role of ‘head of the institute.’ Timothy _Stoker_ , walking sexual harassment suit, head of the Magnus Institute? It had seemed like a particularly cruel joke at first.

No, actually. Worst of all was how fucking good Tim had ended up being in the position. His whole attitude had changed overnight, and he stepped up to the plate to take on the responsibilities of running an upheaving archive. As much as it might pain him to admit, he could imagine how much worse things would have gotten if not for Tim’s coolheaded leadership. He was a natural. Jon viciously scrubbed shampoo through his hair. It dripped into his face and burned his eyes.

No, _actually_. Worst of all was that Tim was a goddamn liar. In his bitter moments, Jon had always figured as much. Tim smiled too much. As he’d finally admitted to Jon over drinks that fateful night: nobody was _that_ good. Even the great Timothy Stoker struggled with his new responsibilities. He’d never managed an archive before; it was all starting to wear on him; and it wasn’t like he really had anyone he could confide in about this, especially not at work; no, not as their new boss in a time of relative crisis, needing to project an image of security and control; aside from Jon of course, because hadn’t they always been mates? (And here he had said ‘mates’ almost like it was its own little joke, with that lilt in his voice dipping a growling low and oh, even under cold water that was unbearable.)

Jon slammed the faucet off. _No_ , actually. Worst of all was the fact that he and Tim had slept together- were sleeping together? God, he couldn’t think about that. Futures and next-times. He pressed his forehead to the slick tiles, his whole body all trembles and gooseflesh.

For his part, Tim had been good about it. In the morning (after their second round- technically third if you counted Jon’s accident the night before, and he tried not to-- Tim’s cock, his mouth, Jon’s vulnerable little gasp when Tim had--) Jon threw the shower curtain aside violently, spraying water onto the floor. It dripped off him as he stormed around his bathroom, brushing his teeth and getting his clippers ready to trim his face clean. He couldn’t meet his own reflection in the eye. In the morning, Tim had apologized if Jon had been uncomfortable with any of it. And he checked in through the evening, said he never wanted Jon to feel pressured or as though Tim was taking advantage of his position. Had gotten a patient smile on his face at the bar when Jon began to squirm, and said he understood about Gerard.

He dabbed on his aftershave and went back to his room with his hair still dripping to retrieve his glasses and find some clothes. Who was he kidding? Worst of all was Jon’s stupid hopeless crush on his other new boss. The one he wasn’t sleeping with. “Fuck me,” Jon muttered into his closet, grabbing the first clean suit in reach.

With another hour to spare before he had to catch his bus in, Jon found himself brooding into his tea, folding wrinkles into his dry-clean pressed shirt from hunching over. Half a leftover doner from the night before steamed on a plate, freshly microwaved. He normally didn’t eat in the mornings, but since he had the time, he could stand to force something down. It had been hard to find the motivation to get to work an hour early like he used to do. He’d end up having to talk to someone- Martin, Gerard, Tim. Sasha wouldn’t be too bad. But if they were chatting then of course Martin would want to join in, and he was exhausted enough as it was, thanks.

And what if Tim approached him? Starting off all casual and smiley, checking in with him, with the archive, to see how things were coming along. Things had been so busy, with the archives as disorganized as they were. Jon had tried to joke on his first day under Gerard that if he’d known the state of the place he’d have murdered Gertrude as well. It hadn’t gone over. But maybe he’d try the joke with Tim this time, and he’d laugh and perch himself on the edge of Jon’s desk like he was showing off how very much of him was leg, and then lean just a bit too far into Jon’s space. That time of morning he’d bet Tim’s mouth tasted like coffee, like the cigarette he’d tempt Jon with after…

He ground his fingers against his eyes. This was just stress, a weird manifestation of stress. He was just tired and hungry and confused. But tomorrow was Saturday, and he would finally get some proper rest.

\-----

“Gerard?” He rapped lightly on the doorframe, eyes still glued to the file in his hand. He heard shuffling from inside, which meant Gerard was in, so he stepped forward into the room. It was best not to look at Gerard if he could help it. “I’ve gotten the follow-up notes for the Vittery statement- and I’d appreciate in the future if you’d ask Martin to chase up any more of these… spider-themed statements.”

When Gerard didn’t respond, he flicked his eyes up. He was standing there looking at Jon with a very caught out sort of expression, one arm halfway into his big black overcoat. Jon broke eye contact just long enough to glance at the dancing skeletons on his t-shirt. Gerard was the only one who could get away with breaking dress code even under new management; they weren’t meant to have dyed hair or excessive makeup or visible tattoos or facial piercings or casual clothes in the workplace and Jon had never seen Gerard without all of the above. Gerard stared at him without blinking until Jon’s face turned hot.

“Um. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes.” Gerard began to stammer now. “I mean, y-- I’m going-- I’m following up. On a statement.”

“Oh.” Jon nearly turned and left, but stopped himself with a thought. He furrowed his brows and asked, “Since when do you do fieldwork?”

Gerard scoffed and ah yes, that was more like it. The moment of surprise seemed to be sliding off of him now; Jon looked away so he wouldn’t have to see the usual cold irritation on Gerard’s face. “Do you think I was always a desk jockey?”

“Well, since you’ve been here you always get one of us to do the legwork, as far as I’ve heard it.” Instead of responding, Gerard slipped his coat on all the way. Jon shuffled. “What statement is it, then?”

“It’s about Prentiss.”

“Oh. Oh, I thought Martin said he would--”

“Nevermind what Martin says, Jon. I’ve got a lead, that’s all.”

There was something _about_ Gerard. If there was such a thing, Jon thought he might be a compulsive truth-teller. Somehow that only added to his aura of mystery; he’d waltzed up to the Institute, Gertrude not a few days cold in her grave and said outright that Bouchard had hired him on, quote, ‘before he plugged the old girl.’ Jon boggled at that. ‘They’re friends of my mum’s,’ he’d explained, pretty inadequately.

“When you say ‘a lead,’ do you mean, regarding where Prentiss is right now?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Oh dear, he’d meant to be a little politer than that. “Jane Prentiss, the worm woman Jane Prentiss, and you’re just going?”

As Gerard approached, Jon tried to make himself look bigger. There wasn’t much he could do with around a foot of height between them, but he spread his arms and legs to block the door. Gerard laughed and stepped right into Jon’s personal space. That was almost enough to make him cringe away, but he stayed strong.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, you’re not going alone, it’s suicide.”

“You’re not gonna stop me, Jon, you look like you wouldn’t tear through a wet paper bag.”

“First of all, I find that offensive. I’ve been following the case for some time, and considering the state of this archive I probably know more about Prentiss than you do. And I can’t allow you to go off and get hurt out of some… what I assume is some misguided sense of heroism. What are you going to do if you get hurt?”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.”

“Hardly,” Jon bit out, on impulse. “Imagine the damage she could do if you were infected- it scarcely bears thinking about. Have you even got a plan?”

Gerard considered him if just for a moment. “Jon, I _am_ leaving.”

“Out of the question.” Gerard rolled his eyes, which Jon found less than soothing. “Do you have any idea how danger-- ah!”

His stomach leapt as Gerard braced his hands under Jon’s armpits, hoisted him up, and swung him out of the doorway like a misbehaving kitten. He was in the air just long enough for his knees to liquefy, and he crumpled as soon as his feet touched the ground. The file tumbled out of his hand and spilled papers across the floor. Gerard looked down at him for a moment, eyes going wide, like he was fighting another laugh. He bit his lip to button down a grin. It didn’t do any favors for Jon’s knees- still weak- or for his heart rate.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

And he left. Jon stared at the empty doorway for a moment before he managed to swallow his heart and free up his throat. “W-- Gerard!”

Jon scrambled up, skidding on loose paper as he bolted after. He had to jog to keep up with Gerard’s strides, and it gave him a thrum of hope that Gerard walked slowly enough to be caught. Martin peeked up at him quizzically when he passed by the assistants’ office and Jon made a quick gesture across his throat to indicate that he should not take part in this conversation on pain of death. He raised his hands in surrender before they were out of each other’s sight.

Pulling up beside Gerard, he rattled off, “She’s impossible to pin down until a victim turns up, and we haven’t had one of those in weeks. She’s violent and-- deranged. She’s killed a dozen people already, and that’s a modest count.”

“Just a dozen or two? Kid stuff.”

He couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a joke. “How do you even know where she is?”

At this, Gerard looked a little uncomfortable. “I told you, I got a lead.”

“Well, I certainly hope it wasn’t Tim’s method of getting information.” Gerard’s head snapped around to squint at him, and Jon flushed all over again. Oh god, that was all he needed, Gerard thinking Jon was preoccupied with his sex life. “Because of-- the way she spreads, you know. Her victims.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, you know that Tim sort of--”

Gerard stopped short, but Jon didn’t quite have enough time to catch on. A familiar, broad hand caught him by the chest before he could quite collide with the solid body he suddenly registered was in breathing distance. “Watch yourself there, Jon,” Tim teased, his too-white smile flashing. He gave Jon a little beat to mumble an apology before softly patting him on the shoulder. “Not at all. I was just on my way down here to speak to you.”

His eyes slid to Gerard, smile fixed. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Hackney,” he blurted, then shoved a knuckle in his mouth, glaring at Tim like he wished he was biting his head off instead.

When Tim shifted to Jon, clearly expecting an explanation, Jon was only too happy to provide. “He’s going after Prentiss, which is-- you can’t possibly allow him!”

Tim raised his brows. “Certainly not in the middle of the workday. Gerard?”

“I thought it would be neater to do it myself. Rather than send Martin out to Archway and cause a lot of trouble.” He flicked hair out of his face. “Thought you would have wanted that.”

Tim hummed and fiddled with his cufflinks; Jon had noticed the habit recently, a fidget when he was thinking about something. It was hard not to be distracted by his long, pale fingers or the sliver of gold he teased between them. He was still deep in Jon’s space. Not crowding him, he never crowded Jon at work, but it would be nothing for him to reach out and hold Jon’s face in his hands, and oh good god could he not just focus? “Forward thinking as always. But I think Jon has the right idea here. Much too risky to go alone.”

“What?” they both asked, their voices overlapping.

“As a matter of fact… take Jon along, won’t you?”

“Hell no! He has no idea what he’s asking for.”

Why did it always feel like he was missing half the conversation when Tim and Gerard got to talking? He hardly needed Gerard’s pink-faced protestations to confirm that he was unwanted, but it still felt pretty bad to hear. The new head archivist had made it pretty clear from the beginning that he didn’t see the need for archival staff, seemed to resent their very presence every time he and Tim spoke on it within earshot of Jon. That was why Tim had liaised with Jon for the most part over the last few months to begin with. Gerard’s shitty attitude. You’d think he owned the place.

But then again- Jon thought of the tattoos, the strange-looking burns on his arms, his seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of Leitners. And then he thought of himself. He sometimes got winded jogging from one end of the archive to the other. Maybe Gerard had a little bit of a point, just this time.

His sudden trepidation must have shown, because Tim looked up under his lashes and beamed at him. “It’s alright, Jon, you’ll be getting this sort of experience eventually. Best to do it now on our own terms!”

“You can’t do this.” Gerard stepped up to Tim, shouldering Jon out of the equation. He might not have towered over Tim, but it was still a clear act of hostility. Unbidden, a sickening image flashed in his mind, almost more real than the world in front of his eyes: Gerard cracking his fist into Tim’s nose, splintering bone up into his brain, the gush of blood--

“Gerard, calm down!” He grabbed the sleeve of his overcoat, which at least stopped him from getting any closer. Desperately, and for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he begged, “Don’t hurt him.”

Jon was no stranger to panic. He’d been an especially nervous child from the start, and after his… encounter, it wasn’t unusual to find his heart screaming bloody with adrenaline out of nowhere, at a mere thought. He pressed a hand to his chest, like that would suppress this prey-animal feeling. When he looked up at Gerard, his expression was almost concerned, before it hardened.

“What…” He swallowed his question after a moment. “How dare you?”

Tim cocked his head. His voice lowered and slickened with the edge of something dangerous. “Come now, Gerard. Don’t frighten poor Jon.”

Gerard’s shoulders stiffened and his hand clenched. He yanked his arm out of Jon’s tender grip and backed off a few paces as though to save himself the temptation. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. 

Tim clasped his hands in front of him, all teamwork cheer.

“Perfect. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. I trust you can show him the ropes?” Leaning in a little conspiratorially, Tim snagged Jon’s eyes with his own and murmured, “Mr. Keay’s experience in these matters is part of what made him so attractive to my predecessor, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be disgusting,” Gerard snapped, storming past the two of them down the hall. “I’ll be outside.”

Jon’s voice had gone a little froggy in the minute since he last spoke. At least his heart wasn’t trying to leap out of his throat anymore; still, trying to follow this whole exchange had left him with whiplash. “Right behind you. But, ah-- you needed to speak to me, Tim?”

Reaching out, he smoothed his fingertips down the arm of Jon’s blazer. Probably it was meant to be friendly. Tim had always been more tactile than a normal person. “It can wait a little longer. I am glad I caught you though, I hadn’t realized how dire it was down here.”

“Oh. Yes, um. You know how he is.”

“Oh yes. But you’ll keep an eye on him, won’t you?”

Tim shot him a wink and jerked his head towards Gerard. Like a ‘go get him, tiger.’ He huffed out a breath, his chest too tight to laugh, and jogged after the slouching form. He couldn’t say that Tim was the worst boss he’d ever had.

\-----

Gerard didn’t keep pace for him this time, and had long disappeared down the corridor before Jon could catch him. The sharp white glow of overcast daylight pulled a wince from him as he opened the door onto the car park. After hours of fluorescents, the sun could make his eyes ache.

Leaning up against the window as though he’d been waiting for ages, Gerard stood with a cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. He looked up at Jon below his long fringe and flicked away a dab of ash. 

“Look,” he said, “I still don’t think you should come.”

Jon took a sharp breath in through his nose. He got a strong whiff of burning tobacco that made his molars and tongue and throat ache with wanting a smoke. “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”

Gerard smiled again, even though he did his best to hide it with his cigarette. Pushing himself off the wall, he stretched with a crackle of joints and jerked his head towards the sparsely filled rows of cars.

“But rules are rules, I suppose. So just do what I say if you don’t want to get yourself killed, alright?”

He pressed his lips into a fine, solid line and didn’t respond; Gerard intuitively took that as a yes. Jon followed him down the steps and out onto the pavement, towards a weathered black 10-year-old model Audi. He had guessed it was Gerard’s by the peeling Megadeth decal slapped onto the back windshield. When Gerard caught him staring at it, he tried to play innocent even though he hardly knew why. He had as much right to ogle over Gerard’s weird car as anyone. Gerard got sort of a funny look, one he couldn’t read. But it was soft.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Mouth dry, Jon muttered, “Not at all,” and slipped into the passenger seat.


	2. Oxygen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His head pulsed, not painful but absolutely dizzying, bringing him to one knee. Sweat rolled into his eyes and stung. Tight and heavy, his chest fought him even to breathe. His heart thrummed all the way to his fingertips. Asthma? A heart attack? He gulped uselessly, feeling his throat pull taut. No, god, why panic, why now? Where was the adrenaline, the fighting spirit? Blinded by the swirl of hot light and tears, unable to blink it away, he clawed in a breath and closed his eyes.
> 
> Gerard was going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than expected because of that good clean summer depression but it's almost fall now so that means writing season. Warning that this chapter gets a bit nasty at some points with the gore/ body horror!

The moment Gerard turned the key, the speakers blared to life with metal, a high-pitched woman’s voice wailing about the end of days. He bobbed his head to the music, taking a drag off his cigarette and reversing out into the street. Jon sat rigid. Even without Gerard smoking right there next to him, the smell of stale cigarettes was a little overwhelming; he forced a cough as though choking on it. When Gerard didn’t seem to notice, Jon coughed again, louder, and cleared his throat.

“Could you not smoke in the car?”

Gerard made a big show of rolling his eyes before he let down a window and hung one hand on the edge so the smoke could blow away. Less than completely satisfied, Jon reached over and turned down the music to a more manageable volume.

It took Jon a few minutes after they’d left the institute- fidgeting in his seat all the while- to realize they were not, in fact, heading towards Hackney. Steeling his voice so he didn’t sound quite so anxious, he demanded, “Where are we going?”

Gerard paused for a moment to look at him sidelong. “Well we’re not exactly having a punch-up with her, Jon. We need supplies.”

“Oh.” Jon willed himself not to be embarrassed by Gerard’s tone. “I suppose that makes sense. But what sort of supplies do you use to get rid of a-- I mean, what is she? A living worm hive?”

Gerard snorted. He didn’t say anything else at first, and Jon’s assumption was that he simply wasn’t dignifying the question. But when he happened to glance at Gerard’s face, the bit that he caught in the rearview mirror, he actually seemed to be chewing on his answer, like he couldn’t quite figure out a way to put it. At last he took one hand off the steering wheel (the one that wasn’t holding his cigarette) to snap.

“Well, think about it conceptually: what do you do to get rid of an insect problem?”

“Um. Insecticides?”

That took Gerard off his guard. Raising his eyebrows and nodding, he conceded, “Fair enough, actually. That can be useful too for what we’re doing, but we won’t get our hands on like, fumigation equipment, especially on such short notice, so that’ll be best served for close quarters. Hopefully it won’t come to that at all but, you know.”

What else could Gerard be thinking of if ‘insect-killer’ hadn’t been his first solution for killing insects? If it had hardly even crossed his mind until Jon said something? “So,” he hedged cautiously, “what did you mean, then?”

Gerard actually laughed, taking a right into the car park out front of a hardware store. He reached over and tapped the skip on his cd player, and it made an audible scratch-whir the way Jon hadn’t heard in years as it prepared to read the new song. This one was slower, quieter, a little tense. “To be honest, I’d kind of skipped a few steps in the logic. More important than just bugs, you think about the core of it. What do you do to _purify_ something? Wipe out disease, clean what’s been tainted.”

And here was the crux of it, that thing where Jon didn’t know what Gerard was talking about. What did purity and disease have to do with anything? “Medicine?”

The car rocked to a stop. “Heat, Jon. Fire.”

Gerard went very still all of a sudden. He raised a hand, one finger up- ‘wait’ in a gesture. Then, reaching down, he grinned and turned up the music. ‘ _Nothing cleanses quite like fire,’_ cried the woman on the radio. The guitars came crashing down behind her and Gerard lashed his hands with the beat of the drums beneath. He turned his smile on Jon with a breathtaking sort of mischief.

At the hardware store, Gerard picked up a few cans of anti-wasp neurotoxin and sundries for the purpose of a bonfire. Jon trailed after him the whole way, chewing on his lip. He didn’t even know where to begin his questions: where Gerard had learned all of this stuff, what he meant by the ‘core’ of it, what exactly were they going to be burning. Gerard had brought his own canvas bags into the store- black- and loaded their purchases back into it after checking out, save for the canisters of gasoline which he carried by hand. The credit card he’d used- custom printed black as well- was a direct line to the Institute. No way Gerard was paying for all of this out of his own pocket.

“How do you think Tim would feel if we took this baby for a ride?” he joked, giving the card a lazy wave before pocketing it again. Jon laughed stumblingly.

“A few months ago he’d have probably found it funny.”

“But not anymore. Lost his sense of humor when he took the new job, didn’t he?”

“He hasn’t-- not _lost_ it, you know.” Gerard popped open the back of his car and put his bags away inside, grabbing the rest from Jon almost before he could hand them over. The sudden absence of weight startled him, a moment of dizziness. He didn’t know why he was defending Tim, why he was _continuing_ to defend him in fact, when he said, “It’s just changed. He’s less… bawdy. Honestly, I appreciate that about him; I always found it a little tiresome the way he used to behave.”

“‘Course you did. You’re what, about 60 give or take?”

The boot slammed shut, covering the sounds of Jon spluttering. “I’m 38,” he insisted.

“You sure? You did just say ‘bawdy’ to my face like it’s 1800-something. No wonder he…” Catching himself, Gerard shook his head. His face turned drawn; suddenly, the joke wasn’t funny anymore. “Alright, get in. We’ve got another stop to make.”

The next stop was an outdoor supply shop: for protection, Gerard explained. While Gerard had come to work prepared for the nasty side of the job, Jon decidedly had not. He’d have to trade out the blazer for something sturdier. The slacks too, if they could find something suitable.

“You’ll want as much skin covered as you can manage,” Gerard said, rifling through the coats on the rack. “Close to skintight, or sealed at the edges- I’ll pop a couple rubber bands on my wrists to close off my coat sleeves, me. It won’t do you much good if she gets the drop on you, but a couple worms will take a good minute to chew through layers of denim and polyester."

“Is it like this for all your… missions?”

“What?”

“You know.” Jon gestured around to the coats, to the store. “The gear? The fire?”

“Oh, no, just-- it varies, you pick up on things. You reason it out, you see all the way around the problem, you make plans. It’s part of the, uh…” he shrugged. “Job.”

“And this is the Archivist’s job?” Somehow he had a hard time picturing an ancient woman like Gertrude, plum shaped and cups of tea and librarian glasses, taking time out of archiving to kill monsters.

  
  


Gerard stopped for a moment, worked his mouth around a couple of unformed answers, and then smiled. “It’s _my_ job.”

\-----

They pulled up into a school, parked along the private road. It was closest to her nest, an old building a little way’s off from the dormitories. When Jon made to voice his concerns- how was he expected to put _school children_ in danger?- Gerard cut him off.

“None of the students are in. No staff, either. Apparently there’s uh, black mold in the vents. Very serious.” Gerard’s light tone couldn’t conceal his agitation. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, the tightness of his arms visible under his coat.

Jon wet his lip. “And this is her target? A girls’ academy?”

“Few places an illness spreads faster than school. And you know her style, she incubates young women so they’ll go and spread it. It almost-- it almost shows, like, thought. A thought process, you know? Not just a bunch of animal instincts, but that level of strategy. You have to wonder how much she still understands about what she’s doing. What she is.”

The muscles behind Gerard’s jaw flexed; Jon followed the movement out of natural curiosity and noticed for the first time that one of his strange little eye markings was tattooed just behind the hinge. “I suppose that is… disturbing. But I mean, surely if she’s gone so far then it hardly matters whether she’s self-aware, does it? Since you’ve got to… if killing her would save hundreds of lives, immediately, and it will.”

Gerard _looked_ at him. His eyes had such an ancient weight, which didn’t lift even as his mouth cracked into a smile. “No. No, that’s not what I’m…” He paused, and then seemed to toss aside his words with a chuckle, saying instead, “Thank you, Jon.”

Jon had to wet his lip again. “Oh. You’re welcome?”

He thumped the steering wheel one last time for good luck. “Let’s go catch a worm.”

Jon plucked at his gear as Gerard unloaded their haul from the boot. The wader pants and sport coat were cumbersome, the gloves made everything slippery, and the bandanna over his mouth just made him feel ridiculous. He’d likely be glad for some protection when the fire got going in earnest, but… Gerard pushed one of the 4 liter canisters into his arms and marched him towards the building.

The gasoline sat uncomfortably heavy, its weight resting on Jon’s chest as he hauled his canister up towards the school building. According to Gerard- Jon wondered more and more where he could have possibly gotten his information- Jane was sleeping through the daylight hours down in the basement. The upper floors had been turned into IT labs, renovating the back half of a beautiful white marble building that had once nearly fallen to pieces. Something guilty stirred in his stomach. They would have to make a bottleneck, blocking the doors and, for the glass-paneled back half of the building…

“Gerard…” He hefted the canister a little higher in his arms and made it slosh all its disconcerting weight. “Are we seriously committing arson?”

Gerard looked back over his shoulder with the deepest contempt. “Oh, don’t be a baby!”

Jon felt himself redden. “Gerard! This is a _school_!”

“Yeah, and the proprietors should be thanking us. They’ll get a fat insurance check on the property and nobody will get infected by evil worms.”

“Look-- I mean-- the portico! It’s beautiful, it must be a few hundred years old. We can’t just set it on fire.”

Gerard shrugged, not even dignifying him with a glance back. “It’ll go if that’s it’s time to go, and it’ll live if it’s going to live. Now shh.”

They split off, Gerard sealing off the entrances and disabling the sprinklers, and Jon on petrol duty. “I’ll be inside by the time you finish going over every floor,” he instructed at a whisper, smoking one last cigarette for good luck, “so once you get back down to the back entrance, light your trail. That’ll be my signal. You with me?”

Throat far too tight and dry, Jon nodded.

Before they parted, Gerard took a nice, silver lighter out of his pocket and pressed it into Jon’s hand. It had been engraved with black with the pattern of his tattoos. He laughed it off before Jon could protest and slapped him on the shoulder.

“You haven’t got a light, have you? You’ll need it more than I will.”

Then he vanished around the side of the building. With shaking hands, with shaking everything, Jon gathered his supplies. His body seemed to move automatically to follow Gerard’s instructions, trying his best to step quietly on the rasping carpet. The gasoline fumes stung his eyes and swirled his brain. But despite stumbling feet and numb, slightly sore arms, it all went perfectly. He could hardly believe how easy it was to burn a building down.

Hands empty at last, he pushed open the ground floor door and escaped back into fresh air. He stood in the doorway, holding it open and just breathing. Cars rumbled past on the nearby road, and trees twitched in a slight wind, but besides that the world around him had gone silent. It made the click of the lighter as he flicked it open a little startling. The trail of gasoline caught, almost before he thought he’d touched the flame to it, and he yanked his hand back and shook away the sudden shock of heat. The glass door swung shut the moment he stepped back from it. From there, he could watch the flame spread from patch to patch, catching on anything dry and flammable with sudden gouts of smoke.

And now? He licked his lips, dry from exertion and the growing heat in the air. He just had to wait for Gerard. Guard the last exit just in case, with one of the spray cans at his side for use against any worm desperate enough to try. He licked his lip again; his own sweat caught salty on his tongue. Already, just from walking up and down flights of stairs and standing here in front of a steadily burning building, he felt soaked with sweat from his back down between his legs. He wriggled to try and somehow peel his clothes away from his damp skin without touching them. As ridiculous as it was, he wanted a cigarette. It would keep his hands full.

A sharp crackling split the air and nearly made him jump out of all his layers. The air raged with the smell of smoke, the heat growing more intense, and when he saw black plumes rising up from the far side of the building, he realized what was happening. All that glass was beginning to crack from the inferno pressure. How long would Gerard take?

Jon blinked hard. There was something funny in his vision, a warped kind of halo, a migraine aura. He hadn’t gotten a real migraine in years, but this would be a hell of a time for them to start up again. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, trying to ignore the sweat of his brow now slick on his gloves.

His head pulsed, not painful but absolutely dizzying, bringing him to one knee. Sweat rolled into his eyes and stung. Tight and heavy, his chest fought him even to breathe. His heart thrummed all the way to his fingertips. Asthma? A heart attack? He gulped uselessly, feeling his throat pull taut. No, god, why panic, why now? Where was the adrenaline, the fighting spirit? Blinded by the swirl of hot light and tears, unable to blink it away, he clawed in a breath and closed his eyes.

Gerard was going to die.

Jon was certain of that even before the whole scene had resolved in his mind. From his position in the corner of the room, watching, the man and the woman stood poised and ragged. A battle fought near to a standstill, and the pressure packing in. Smoke filtered in the edges of the room, fire creeping closer. For a moment Jon struggled to tell the two of them apart. Long lank black hair, tall, panting, and sickly pale; and holes and eyes were easy to mistake.

Gerard slashed out with his absurd knife at a twisted grey thing that leapt back from the metal shine. Not leapt, really- undulated away, a mass of writhing hole-punched flesh seeming to be dragged from within more than a single body moving with a single will. He couldn’t see her face, turned away from him and hidden by long ratty black hair. A slopping sound emanated from her, wet and wretched. It was a laugh. And then a worm hacked its way up from her throat.

Gerard pointed the canister of wasp spray in the other hand and doused the worm as it launched at him, but it wasn’t enough on its own to protect him from a shrieking, lunging Jane. She was shockingly large beside him, bloated with the mass of the hive, and caught him whole. The momentum of her charge bowled Gerard over, but not before a deft swing of his knife lashed out across her throat; the limp rot of her neck cleaved away, head rolling in a black comet-tail of tangled hair.

Like the neck of the hydra, worms upon worms gushed out. Foul fat little white silver things, sticky, with toothy leech mouths, sloughing out of Jane’s still-writhing body with a violent afterbirth of blackened blood. They spilled out over Gerard, smothering him. He had no time to defend himself, no way to stop them all, no hope but to burn up in peace as the flames crawled up the rafters overhead. Time crawled too now. Jon could see every crack, every sliver of careless skin where clothes had been rucked up by combat, or torn by hungry mouths. The worms crawl in. And the worms crawl out.

Jon dry heaved hard, sweat pouring down the back of his neck. He reached up with a trembling hand to pull his glasses off. His vision had cleared except for the blur of tears and astigmatism, and a few lingering black spots. What, then- a hallucination? He wasn’t _that_ stressed, surely. And he didn’t think he was quite creative enough to hallucinate all of that. His tongue and ribs still pounded with a quick, unsteady pulse that almost had him convinced that he was dying after all. Trust his useless brain to put him through death throes of imagining--

Gerard was going to die.

His muscles tightened, nerves shooting with the demand to get to his feet. He did. Slamming his glasses back on, Jon took a quick stock of his weapons: the petrol was all spilled, catching as more and more of the building went up, but he still had the spare can of wasp killer and two good hands.

He went for the door, stomach lurching as he skidded to a halt. Shut. Gerard had locked the door behind him. His breath caught in another dry heave, but he forced himself to push through it. The front of the door was glass, so if only he could break it down somehow. His mind’s eye flashed- yes! The axe in the boot of Gerard’s car, a big nasty looking thing perfect for chopping off heads and bringing down doors, whatever Gerard did in his spare time. Jon had hardly known he could run so fast or swing so hard; the axe felt heavy and awkward in his hands, but it mashed the glass front to pieces in just a few breathless strikes.

The wave of heat from inside bowled him over, and he shielded his face with a wince. The sweat seemed to blister against his skin. His early fires on the entrance linoleum had sputtered out to cinders, but the heat still oppressed him and the deep grey smoke still caught horribly in his throat. Eyes wet, he grabbed the wasp spray and shoved it haphazardly into his pocket. His hands flexed on the handle of the axe. Christ, he didn’t want to do this.

Taking a deep breath, he sprinted through. Licks of heat on his feet chased him down to the basement staircase, which he nearly tumbled down in his rush to get away from the flames. At the very least, down here the smoke was thinner, a fine grey mist hanging up near the ceilings. And from down the hall, audible even as he slammed into every corner and rocketed their way, Gerard’s voice grunting and panting, the occasional clang of metal and the sickly drag of Jane Prentiss’s hive on the tiles.

He surveyed the room in an instant, the details uncannily familiar. The floor was littered with fat little silver bodies, limp: brutally dispatched worms. In the middle, their killer swung his knife at their mother, who snapped at him with a wide, rotting mouth and forced him back.

Gerard caught himself on a stack of boxes, the top few tumbling to the ground. Jane’s body coiled like she was preparing to launch herself at him, too much like his vision, and Jon couldn’t stop himself from barrelling out and screaming with all the power his smoke-addled lungs could manage.

“Jane!”

Jon swung the axe into the nearest pipe, a spray of water rewarding his stupid efforts. Gerard pulled his gaze away from Jane for a moment, wild-eyed and shining with sweat and beautiful and completely furious.

“Jon, what the fuck are you _doing_?”

He didn’t have the breath to answer. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have the time. Jane’s attention was on him now, and beneath the ragged strings of her hair, her dead eyes flashed. Yanking the axe back out from the wall, he turned on his heel and sprinted back for the stairs. She followed, loping on all fours at a shocking speed. Oh god, what _was_ he doing? He wasn’t an action hero, he didn’t-- the axe was already getting heavy in his arms and his knees hurt from pounding cement. He took as many stairs at a time as his height allowed, hardly breathing let alone looking back to see how close she was. No room to think of anything else but moving. Out, into the hallway. Twist, away from the door, down the corridor. He darted into an empty classroom, his chest heaving, and thank god, she followed him.

He whirled on her with his axe ready, just as the door slammed shut. Even with the heavy rasp of their breathing and the crackle of fire overhead and around them, he could hear the lock’s nauseating click. Worse. Jane Prentiss was grinning.

Gerard slammed bodily into the door, rattling it in its frame. The handle shook as he twisted uselessly on it; through the sliver of glass paneling Gerard bared his teeth in a determined snarl. Jane stopped, cocking her head at the trembling door before she realized that yes, she and Jon were locked in here together. Her warped smile turned back on Jon.

“Sorry… Archivist,” she hissed. Her voice blowfly buzzed. “For one more… spit… in the eye.”

He tried to swing the axe at her, but she batted it out of his hands in one lunge. Her skin split with the force of it, a few worms raining down to the floor, but she hardly seemed to feel it. Jon stumbled away from her grasp, keeping his feet but starting at a metal clang. The precious bug killer had fallen out of his pocket. While Jane took the moment to shake away the ruined flesh at the end of her arms, the worms made for him next.

They sprang up, latching onto the plastic waders and coat, shockingly heavy for their size. He rocked with their momentum and hit the floor. Blunt through all his layers, he could feel their little teeth trying to dig into his flesh. But thank god again, Gerard had been right about plastics, because he yanked them off easily and threw them away. The smoke in the room seemed to slow them- he wasn’t the only one choking, apparently. One smacked against the wall hard enough to send it writhing and then suddenly still. A few more he managed to launch into the flaming pit of debris forming in the middle of the room where the floor was caving in.

Jane skittered for him on all fours, the wet slapping of her limbs against the tiles blending with inhuman laughter. It sounded like every convulsion of her lungs cracked them apart to make room for more worms, more hive. Jon could only just keep ahead of her by lashing out with his feet, scrabbling across the floor until he was close enough to grab the wasp killer. He hefted it, spraying neurotoxin in a noxious cloud towards her; she reared away, screeching and clawing at her face. A mass of dead worms leaked out of her mouth. It only seemed to slow her down, though, not to stop her. She lunged blindly towards him, and he couldn’t quite keep out of reach. Her hand, the one that was still mostly a hand, sank into his thigh hard enough to pierce his skin even without tearing his clothes. He yelped. His scraping and kicking only got more desperate as she fought to drag herself over him.

“The lighter!” Jon looked over to Gerard for a moment, and met his gaze through the doorway. When their eyes locked, it almost felt like he could breathe again.

His hand shot down for his pocket and managed a slippery hold on the lighter. Even holding it out, Jane hesitated. He could make out a sliver of human emotion on her face, of actual fear. It only lasted a second. Then he clicked it and pressed his finger down.

The aerosol lit up, dousing her in a wave of flame. It swallowed her, twisted screams gargling up from the sudden flaming mass. For all her sickly wetness, for all the rot of her, she went up like the paper of a hornet’s nest. She groped around, peeling at her own face, at her burning hair, at the ground, at Jon who had not stopped spraying her down, until the shrieking stopped and the moving stopped. With a last burst of strength, he lodged his legs under her stomach and shoved her away. Her head landed in the burning rubble, cracking open in a splatter of roasting worms.

Jon climbed to his feet. The can fell out of his hand. It was too hot to hold anymore.

His hand was still hot. His hand was on fire. Coughing out a breathless curse, he shook his arm, the flames whipping where they’d caught on his plastic coat. He yanked it off, throwing it to the ground followed by his glove, and his hand was blistered red and his shirt cuff scorched.

Jon looked up at the sound of wooden clatter, as Gerard finally battered the rest of the door down. Sweat had made his makeup run around his eyes.

“Fucking Christ, Jon,” he panted, squeezing through the doorway. “Are you hurt?”

“Don’t-- don’t swear at me, please.” Jon put a hand to his chest, his heart burning out of him. “She didn’t get me. I think she’s--”

He cut off with a yelp as a white hot pain lanced up his hand that had him convinced for a moment that he was somehow still on fire. Gerard lunged for him, tackling him to the floor- this time knocking his head against the tile hard enough to make his head spin. Or maybe that was just the lack of oxygen, the way his lungs burned with smoke and screaming. The first burst of pain kept spreading, moving up his arm so fast and so overbearing that he really did wonder if it was a heart attack. His vision pulsed with his racing heartbeat until he screwed his eyes shut. Gerard ripped his shirt open and pressed with the edge of his knife to the skin just below Jon’s right clavicle. When he did that, around the bone deep pain like something had eaten through his nerves and bones, Jon could feel something writhing.

The knife scored in deep, and as the last piece of Jane was exposed to the open air it let out a thin wail that rattled Jon’s jaw. Gerard cut it out of him with a deft flick, and squashed the blood-soaked thing under his boot. Jon gritted his teeth, went rigid. Blood pooled from his hand and from the new wound over his ribs; it didn’t stop much when Gerard snatched up his fallen lighter and let the flame lick up from the open eye and over his open skin. He went limp in a kind of faint. Jon was still present, unseeing and unmoving but trapped there in his awful, aching body.

Picking him up, Gerard apologized. “Had to make sure there was no trace of her. God, Jon...”

He was so small against Gerard’s chest, cradled to him like a child. He bled sluggishly onto Gerard’s jacket, fading in and out of the world until Gerard managed to carry them both into the sunlight. Sirens whirred. Several loud, furious voices joined them. Glass crunched under his boots.

“What are you all staring at?” he demanded from over Jon’s head. “This man needs a doctor.”

He could have laughed. At last, blessedly, Jon slipped fully into darkness and away from the awful mess he’d created.


End file.
